The Empty Canvas
by middlemarch
Summary: When Molly and Lestrade start dating, Sherlock initially regards the affair as 'potentially inconvenient.' Soon, however, his growing objections to their relationship reveal to him something about himself - and about Molly - he had never deduced.
1. Chapter 1: A Moonlight Meeting

**DISCLAIMER: The characters of this fic do, of course, belong to BBC Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Chapter 1: A Moonlight Meeting. **

Sherlock Holmes is, to say the least, a remarkable man. His physiology is certainly striking, with jet black curls embracing marble skin, thick strong neck rolling into delicate collar bone and severe cheekbones sculpting piercing blue eyes. But the most beautiful thing about Sherlock Holmes was, to Molly at least, his mind. She wasn't quite sure how to describe why it was this particular aspect she was most drawn to...true, she had always found intelligence an attractive feature in a man, but what Sherlock did, or rather how he did it, was beyond logic – you could even say it was so logical it was illogical – and was certainly a new breed, or perhaps generation, of intellect. She often thought of modern art when she thought of him; striking, complex and inexplicably beautiful. Yes, Sherlock was like an abstract painting, filled with splashes of juxtaposing colours, from fiery crimson to chilling sapphire...chaotic yet ordered, moving yet still - stunning yet terrifying. And what was she, by comparison, in this little metaphor she'd created? She stared out of the tube, into the moving blackness. Of course – a blank canvas; plain and entirely uninteresting.

"Excuse me Ms, are you done with that paper?"

"What? Yes...um...sorry, here." She handed the newspaper over to the woman sitting opposite her, who immediately turned to the business section, taking no notice of the man in the deerstalker hat and the headline which accompanied him.

Oh how Molly envied her.

* * *

_Christ it's cold_, thought Greg Lestrade, as he left the warmth of the office building behind. He wrapped his coat around him more tightly, and headed for the tube station, wanting to get as far away from where he was as possible.

He just could not believe it was over. Was that all it took? A signature and a life was divided, a marriage dissolved. Not that he was in shock – it was what they had both wanted, and deep down he knew the gap had been forming long before the notion of divorce was even discussed. It just seemed so strange that it was all, finally, over.

He was surprised to realise how calm he felt. It was as if all the anger and gloom that had been consuming him for the past few months was signed away also, leaving him free to feel and think without this great weight tugging at his stomach.

_God it felt good_.

The underground sign loomed into view, and Greg picked up his pace, eager to go somewhere and do...do something. Just as he was rushing down the steps, however, he noticed a familiar face shuffle past in the opposite direction.

"Molly? Molly Hooper?"

She glanced back, stopping just a few steps above him. "Oh! Hello Inspector...um, Lestrade is it?"

He smiled, and walked up until they were side by side. "Call me Greg. Do you need some help with those?"

"No I – thanks, but I can-"At that precise moment one of the two bags she had been clutching to split open, its entire contents spilling across the steps of the underground. "Shit!" She began scrambling to pick up what had fallen, but with Londoner after Londoner rushing up and down, Lestrade knew it was hopeless. Pulling his badge out of his coat, he shouted to the crowd.

"Alright I need everyone to vacate this side of the stairs immediately!"

* * *

Molly could not believe it. The continuous flow of travellers began to migrate from where she and the inspector stood, none of them even glancing up to question their relocation or complain about the inconvenience. She watched as Lestrade began picking up her shopping, holding the badge up in his other hand and continuing to direct people away. She bent down to grab the sliced bread on the step beneath her, and when she looked up again he was in front of her, all six foot of him, arms ladened with groceries.

"I, uh, that was so nice of" - _Get a grip Molly!_ she thought to herself furisouly -"So nice of you. Thanks."

"Don't mention it, got to abuse the power every now and then!"

She laughed, a little too loudly she was sure, then reached out for the packets and tins he held grasped to his chest. "I'll just uh, take these off you."

"Don't be silly, I'll walk you home." He smiled at her, and Molly noticed how his grey eyes twinkled in the light.

"Are you sure? I really don't want to be any more trouble – "

"It's no trouble at all. And it'd be nice to catch up, it's been ages!" They turned and began walking up the steps.

"The last time we saw each other was at the wedding right?"

"That's right, John and Lucy's."

"Such a lovely service..."

"Yeah but don't you remember the singer? Bloody awful!"

"Oh god yeah I'd forgotten about her!"

"I honestly think my ears were bleeding... was this close from arresting her for physical assault!"  
She laughed again, and he did too.

Accompanied by the lights and buzz of a sleepless city, and what turned out to be the lovely company of the inspector, Molly silently decided that unreliable plastic bags weren't so bad after all.

* * *

Greg couldn't believe he hadn't realised just how lovely Molly Hooper was until now. He hoped the journey to her flat was a long one, if just to listen to her laugh and have those big brown eyes dart from the pavement to his face and back again. He found her timidity - what had Sherlock called the crime scene this morning? _Endearing_.

"So, um, this is me." They had stopped outside a block of flats which were, basically, just that; grey walls and grey windows, not shabby but certainly not sophisticated. She bit her lip anxiously – how could anyone be that adorable? "Thanks again for everything Greg, and, uh, sorry for all the trouble."

"Trust me, it was no trouble. Let me walk you up."

"Okay."

A few moments later they stood outside a grey door (was there any colour in this place?) labelled with a slightly wonky number 8. The hallway was quite dark, the only source of light being the moon, which had spilled itself into the building through a nearby window. Maybe it was the way the silvery light danced off her hair, or perhaps it was the fact that the grey hall made her eyes look bigger and browner than ever - whatever it was, Greg Lestrade suddenly felt impulsive, and decided to do something he rarely did outside of his profession, and had certainly never done in his personal life – act on instinct.

"Molly, would you maybe want to do this again sometime?"

"Uh...do what?"

"Spend some time together. I could take you out – I mean not for groceries or to the underground." _Blimey I'm out of practise, _he thought. "But for a meal, someplace nice."

"Oh right, I uh - "

"Forget it, I've made a fool of myself haven't I. I'll let you -"

"No! I mean, it's not that...I just...well I thought – aren't you married?"

"Oh that! Nope, I'm a divorced man." He found he quite enjoyed this declaration. "Seems Sherlock was right, as usual", he couldn't help adding. "She _was _sleeping with the gym teacher."

"Oh that's terrible, I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be, it hadn't been right for ages...as much as I'll hate it I'm going to have to thank Sherlock sometime. He can be such a prat but it's funny how he can open your eyes to things that, once you look at, you can't believe you hadn't seen before." He smiled inwardly to himself at the duplicity of that last sentence. Molly really did have lovely eyes.

"Anyway, what do you reckon? If the whole divorce thing bothers you I under -"

"Okay then – yes." She smiled, and Greg felt younger than he had in years. They exchanged numbers, and just as he was about to ask what type of food she liked his phone rang with a low buzz and a shrill call.

"I'm sorry Molly, do you mind if I take this?"

"No! No of course not."

"Lestrade."

"We've got a body sir, possible homicide." It was Sally Donovan.

"Okay, what's the location?"

She told him.

"Alright I'll be there in ten."

"Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"The body...it's an eight year old girl."

He sighed. That was what he hated about being in the force – no matter how many cases you solved or how many crooks you caught, you were always just too damn late.

"I'll get there as soon as I can." He hung up, and turned back to Molly. "I'm really sorry but I've gotta run."

"Don't worry about it, I've already taken up way too much of your time." She took the tins and packets he had been carrying as she said this.

"Not nearly enough" he corrected, and, without thinking about what he was doing, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She blushed, but aside from that didn't seem to mind his forwardness. Or at least he hoped she didn't. "Night Molly, I'll call you."

"Okay" she smiled. "See you!" And with that she disappeared into the flat. As Greg rushed down the stairs and hailed a taxi, he could not help but grin at what he'd glimpsed of Molly Hooper's home.

He didn't think he had ever seen so many colours before.


	2. Chapter 2: An Interesting Case

**Chapter 2: An Interesting Case**

"I knew it! Saturated with alcohol. Takes 72 hours for the lipids to deform to this extent so it must be..." Sherlock faltered; his hand had reached for coffee but had instead met thin air. He looked up from the microscope and surveyed the lab.

Ah, he was alone.

No matter, he could concentrate much better without Molly, and at least there would be none of her clumsy clattering or dreadful unfinished sentences to bother him. Well, verbally unfinished sentences. They were always so excruciatingly predictable it was elementary to finish them off.

He did really want a coffee though.

And why wasn't she in away? Her last dentist appointment had been 37 days ago, and he could tell from the way she'd started smiling with her teeth more frequently and switching back to fruit juice that the prognosis had been positive... A doctors visit was out of the question - Molly would only go for the necessary checkups, one of which she'd had a week ago today, and besides she had seemed to be in perfect health the last time he had seen her...there were of course the dark shadows under her eyes, but the 3 to 5 hours of sleep that the shade had indicated were standard for Molly.

As irked by her absence, or rather the absence of caffeine, as he was, he decided to waste no more time on the matter, and turned back to the slides he had been investigating. A few minutes proved them to be much more conclusive and exceedingly more interesting, and soon Sherlock Holmes was departing the room with a swish of his coat, Molly Hooper already gone from his mind.

* * *

Greg ran his hands through his hair, staring at the autopsy report in front of him.

_Vaginal lacerations indicate repeated sexual abuse, wounds dating back to approximately one week prior to death_.

_Diminished contents of the gastro-intestinal tract __suggest_ _the victim did not eat for at least 13 hours before death._

_Soil molecules lodged in trachea and bronchioles point to an ante mortem burial._

_Cause of death, judging by lip discolouration and scarring tissue along the throat, was mostly likely asphyxiation._

These simple but devastating sentences seemed to burn into Greg's mind.  
_  
Death, death, death, death. _

He started to feel sick.

This fucker had raped, starved and buried an 8 year old girl alive.

He stared out of his office window for a few moments, letting the nausea squirm in the pit of his stomach and the rage throb at the back of his throat, steeling himself not to remedy it by thinking of Molly - he couldn't, _wouldn't_, taint her like that.

He wanted the bastard caught as soon as possible, and that meant one thing.

Within a matter of seconds he had Sherlock Holmes on the phone.

* * *

John Watson looked at brochure after brochure without taking in so much as a doorknob.

"I'd quite like this one, if the kitchen wasn't so small. What do you reckon?"

"Yeah I suppose" he replied, hardly taking in the pamphlet Lucy had held in front of him.

It wasn't as though he didn't want the move to happen – her flat was becoming a little cramped for the two of them, and he liked the idea of them starting a life together in a new home. But the whole process was proving to be so...well, as Sherlock would say, _boring_.

All of a sudden, John realised his wife was looking at him intently. She sighed. "You're not really interested in any of this are you?"

"What? No honey, I am, it's just –" He was interrupted by his phone, which buzzed impatiently.

JOVE CASE SOLVED. MEET ME AT 221B.  
- SH

"Is it Sherlock?"

He looked up at her sheepishly.

"Go on then, I'll pick up a few and you can look them over at home." He gave her a searching look. "Honestly John, I don't mind." She grinned at him, "I knew what I was marrying into."

She really was amazing. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and then whispered softly "I love you Lucy Watson, do you know that?"

She laughed. "Occasionally I get the gist."

With that he made for the door of the Real Estate Agency, calling out behind him "I'll see you at home!"

Out on the highstreet, and just when he was about to get into a cab, he was interrupted by another text.

AND BRING COFFEE.  
-SH

Fifteen minutes later, John stood outside 221B Baker Street with two cups of steaming coffee. As if he could smell the caffeine, Sherlock emerged from the building before John even had a chance to knock.

"We're going to Scotland Yard, now."

"Case?"

"What else."

"A good one?"

"It has potential."

A cab appeared seconds after Sherlock had effortlessly raised a few long and slender fingers – John would have to ask him one day how he did that – and the looming figure disappeared inside. John followed, adrenaline already pumping. Within seconds of sitting down John found a newspaper was thrust to his chest. He read the headline:

**EIGHT YEAR OLD GIRL FOUND BURIED ALIVE.**

John stared at the man who sat beside him, both intrigued and disgusted. The words "it has potential" seemed to ring eerily in his ears.

* * *

Molly fumbled frantically with the buttons of her blouse, toothbrush stuffed haphazardly into her mouth. She glanced at the time.

_Shit shit shit!_

She was now a whole two hours late for her shift, and still could not quite understand why. All she knew is that she had woken up feeling more rested than she had done in years, and that those few moments of peace had been broken instantaneously by the alarming green numbers that had gleamed at her from her bedside table.

She spat into the sink, rinsed her mouth with a glass of water and hastened to the door, remembering only just in time to grab her long red coat from the hanger and her navy blue rucksack from the chest by the door.

Finally, on the tube, her thoughts began to settle. She knew Natalie, who worked the night shift on a Sunday, would probably have stayed on longer to cover for her – she was nice like that – and that no one would mind if she was late as long as bodies were still cut open and reports were still completed.

Molly minded though.

She liked routine, and hated missing work – she had even tried to get out of the Doctor's appointment her contract required her to attend last Monday. What if she had missed something in those few hours? She bit her lip and stared out the window. Or _someone_.

That was when it hit her, when she realised just why she had slept so deeply and so serenely.

It had been a dreamless sleep.

A small bubble of hope seemed to form where, last night – when Greg Lestrade had touched her ear - butterflies had been fluttering. She was not sure if she could dare herself to believe it, but maybe, just maybe, the nights where Sherlock Holmes would haunt her dreams were coming to an end.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that.

* * *

Sherlock looked over the photos and statements Lestrade had presented to him. He was already irritated that he had not been invited to the scene last night, but even more so by the insufferable mutterings of John and the Inspector behind him.

_Yes yes, it's all so terrible and all very sad_, he felt like saying, _but if you two don't shut up I'll make you! _

He knew, of course, that this would be the wrong thing to say, and that a lecture on sensitivity would delay the proceedings even further. Instead he clenched his jaw and examined the limited conclusions the department _had_managed to draw.

Well, already he knew they were wrong about one, two, three...four things.

"Where's the body?"

Lestrade looked up, and Sherlock noticed that, though the Inspector's brow was furrowed and his expression sombre, his lips had more colour than they had done for months and his shoulders no longer sagged ridiculously at his sides.

So, the divorce had been finalised. About time too.

"She's at St. Bart's. The autopsy's been done but we're keeping her in the morgue just in case, well in case anything else comes up." The transparency of how this related to himself seemed so blatant Sherlock thought Lestrade might as well have said so. "Usually it'd be no problem keeping her there while the investigation is ongoing, but with all the media hype it's been a nightmare." Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair – clearly it was becoming a habitual motion for him. "I'm guessing you want to see her?"

"Yes, just to confirm a few things."

"Where are the parents?" John asked Lestrade.

"Home. They've already given their statements but I've kept a few officers with them. At this stage we're not really sure whether to comfort the poor blighters or question them."

"Comfort", Sherlock said shortly. He was impatient to get to the hospital and examine the body. "They didn't do it."

"How d'you –", began both Lestrade and John.

"Not now." He headed for the doorway, using his phone to open up a search on allergy reactions as he walked. "I'll explain once I've seen the body." He enlarged one of the photos that had come up on the screen.

_Ah, now that's interesting._


	3. Chapter 3: The Broken Face

**Chapter 3: That Broken Face**

Just as Molly was sifting through the files Natalie had left neatly on her desk, she felt two hands descend upon her shoulders. Fully aware as to whom those elegant and breathtakingly pale hands belonged to, she swung around, dropping everything to the floor in the process.

Staring down at her were the extraordinary features of an extraordinary man – features which Molly was sure would remain infinitely fascinating if studied for hours and hours.

"Molly. I know you decided to have a lie in this morning but if you would be so kind as to actually do your job, we require you in the morgue."

Even face to face, she never quite felt like those spectacular eyes were fixed on her.

"I – uh – what for?"

"To examine the body of Olivia Knight. Now come on."

She glanced down at her desk. "But she's not on my list?"

"I'm aware of that, but I want you."

He strode back to the door, and Molly couldn't help noticing how his back arched gracefully when he turned once more to face her.

"Five minutes Molly."

Even though he had disappeared into the corridor, Molly's gaze continued to focus on the space he had occupied. His words seemed to echo through her, reverberating from cell to cell.

_I want you._

She knew he didn't mean it in the sense that she ached for him to, but Sherlock Holmes' voice was like something born in the deepest and darkest part of an ocean. It was mesmerising and dangerous, and Molly felt like she could drown in it, like she could let wave after wave of it cascade over her until she lost who she was.

"R-right," she stammered to the empty room. "Five minutes."

Sherlock Holmes no longer haunt her dreams? _Fat chance_, she thought to herself bitterly.

* * *

John watched as the Inspector leaned against the sickly white wall of the hospital, arms crossed in frustration.

"Why does he insist on bothering Molly with this?" Lestrade demanded, eyes flashing angrily.

John wasn't quite sure how to respond. "He trusts her I suppose. I mean you know how it is... there's only a handful of people he'll work with, and I guess Molly is just one of them."

Lestrade's scowl intensified. _What the bloody hell was going on?  
_  
"It just doesn't seem right. She shouldn't - No one should have to - to see that body. Not unless they have to."

_Oh. _"It's that bad is it?"

"Worse," Lestrade replied weakly.

John understood. He had seen more than his fair share of the unspeakable horrors man could commit - he knew firsthand that it could put a person on edge.

"Look why don't you go? I'm sure you've got more than enou – "

"I'm staying." Lestrade's interruption had been so forceful and so unexpected, that John had almost thrown his hands up to shield his face.

A few moments of awkward silence passed before -

"I'm sorry John. It's just, well, I don't do well with kid cases."

"Yeah of course mate, I understand."

The silence stretched on.

"There's also something else. I wanted to ask you about Sherlock, and about Mo-"

But before John could hear what else Lestrade had to say, the man himself appeared from around the corner, and the inspector's mouth snapped shut.

"Shall we?"

John braced himself before he followed Sherlock through the door to the morgue – already the stench of death lay thick in the air.

* * *

Looking far too small for her lab coat and far too innocent for the setting, Greg watched as Molly Hooper unlocked the metallic draw holding Olivia Knight.

"I'm afraid I won't be much help," she said nervously. "I haven't even had a chance to look over Wilkinson's report."

She wheeled the slab of silver out, and Greg stared down at the broken little face. Once again the image of her limp frame bundled up and struggling in a plastic bag feet below the surface, crying for release, tormented him.

Sherlock had already begun inspecting the girl, lifting those tiny arms and feeling her bruised throat. Though Greg watched the dispassionate examination with reproach, deep down he knew Sherlock was saving her in a way he never could.

"Molly, come look at these markings on her collar bone and tell me what you observe," Sherlock ordered.

"What? But I –"

"Just do it."

An urge to hit Sherlock right then and there consumed Greg, but he reasoned with himself.

_Just tell the twat to stop ordering her around._

John beat him to it though –

"Cut it out Sherlock."

Molly, however, had already moved to Sherlock's side and was staring intently at what looked to Greg like a reddish bruise.

"Um, damage to the blood vessels, particularly those close to the surface, and," She leaned closer. "No wait, there's a texture to it - small bumps. It's an irritation of some sort."

"I'm impressed Molly. Your colleague, Mr. Wilkinson – no doubt having already examined her nether regions – assumed they were simply bruises made during sexual abuse." He withdrew his phone. "According to the NHS, this particular irritation is typical of a sodium triphosphate allergy."

"So?" Greg couldn't help asking.

"_So_, we know it is unlikely that Mr. and Mrs. Knight abused and murdered their daughter."

"We do?" Said John, looking just as puzzled as Greg felt.

Sherlock sighed, though it was obvious he was enjoying this.

"Sodium triphosphate is a builder ingredient for most laundry detergents. The reaction to it on the body here is young, and there is no scarring to indicate that she suffered from them repeatedly, meaning that whilst at home and under the care of her parents, Olivia enjoyed the use of clothes which had been washed with sodium triphosphate-free products. Thus we know the reaction occurred under the attention of captors who were unaware of this default in her immune system – the reaction is hardly irritating enough to constitute torture and therefore it is unlikely it was encouraged consciously. Judging by the proximity of the bumps, the irritation occurred roughly 6 days after she was taken, indicating that during her abduction the person or persons providing her clothes switched. So, we are looking for more than one captor, and should probably interview a few of the children clothes and home product shops in the area. "

There was a pause.

_That was it? That was fucking it? How did knowing there was more of them help?_

Whether it was because of the surge of disappointment rushing through him, or the look of awe on Molly's face as she looked up at the so-called 'consulting detective', Greg didn't care. He punched Sherlock Holmes hard in the face.

And _bloody hell it felt good._


	4. Chapter 4: An Indefinable Bond

**Chapter 4: An Indefinable Bond**

"Greg, stop apologising, you have nothing to be sorry about!"

Molly Hooper held the phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder, her hands busy organising the chemicals a rather huffy Sherlock had left all over the counter. She'd been too late to see the man himself, and she found herself wondering if his black eye had at all diminished.

"I just feel like such an idiot."

"You were having a tough day, dealing with a tough case and in tough company - no one blames you."

"All I care about is whether you do."

She stopped her fiddling.

"Why?"

"Because – well isn't it obvious Molly? I like you. You've charmed the socks off of me ever since the grocery incident."

She couldn't help herself – she giggled.

"So, um, would you still be willing to have dinner with me? I promise I won't hit anyone."

"No – I mean yes! No to the hitting anyone and yes to the dinner."

"Great. How's this Friday for you?"

She had the early morning shift on a Saturday... but what the hell.

"Sounds perfect."

"Okay well I've got to run, good luck with your class today!"

"Thanks, see you!"

Molly tucked her phone into her pocket and, sitting down on a nearby stool, sighed heavily.

_I am a terrible person._

She liked Greg, liked the way he made her feel easy and safe, the way he made her laugh and gave her butterflies and the feeling of excitement she got when he sent her a text or called her at name. But, and there was no point denying it, she still dissolved at the very thought of Sherlock Holmes. All it took was one tenor drenched syllable or one piercing glance and her heart seemed to melt. And the worst of it all was that she _hated _the way Sherlock made her feel, hated the weak and pathetic version of herself it cultivated.

But with Greg, with Greg she could be who she wanted to be. She could laugh and chat and possibly even be charming.

With Greg she could be happy.

Fit with a newfound determination, Molly picked up her bag and headed for the door – she was not going to be late to her first art class.

* * *

Lucy Watson could safely say she was a happily married woman. Leaning into the soft curves of the couch, her husband's head resting on her lap and a book open in her hand, she reflected blissfully on how lucky she was.

She had met John Watson at a crime scene eighteen months ago. Sherlock had, of course been with him, so right from the beginning Lucy had been aware of the fact that she could never lay claim to John's heart entirely. Sherlock Holmes would, and always would be, important to her husband. But Lucy didn't resent this as she knew many of John's previous girlfriends had. True, she often resented Sherlock; he was rude and inconsiderate, and she felt John deserved much, much more. But in regards to their relationship she could find no fault in the situation. She knew that many people who met Sherlock Holmes and John Watson assumed they were – er – to put it plainly, _intimately involved_. She herself had recognised that their relationship was, well, unique, and certainly more than platonic. But she had never believed it to be romantic. She saw their bond as something indefinable, as if the two of them had created a new way of connecting to another human being.

She began to stroke John's hair absentmindedly.

Part of that was the reason she loved John so dearly; his heart, which he had so much of and gave so liberally. She wondered whether their relationship would even work without a Sherlock Holmes to steal him away on an exciting new case every now and then. Would she have started to feel suffocated by now? Perhaps. She certainly wouldn't have had as much time to write – she had completely nearly eight chapters of her book in the past week alone! She might even be done by the -

John stirred in her lap and his eyes flickered open. "That feels nice," he murmured, smiling serenely.

She continued to slide her fingers softly through his hair.

"How long have I been asleep for?"

"Only about twenty minutes," she replied, eager to keep him where he was for just a moment longer.

"Hmm. Lucy?" His voice was still barely audible, his eyes half closed.

"Yes John?"

"I love you."

She smiled. "I love you too darling."

They managed to preserve the perfect moment for a few minutes more, until an all-too-familiar buzz shattered it to pieces.

_Maybe it bothered her a little bit_, she decided.

* * *

John sat up reluctantly – he had been so comfortable - and picked the phone up off the coffee table.

IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENT IN CASE BEEN MADE.  
MEET ME AT 221B NOW.  
-SH

He suddenly became alert. _What had Sherlock found out?_ _Did he know who Olivia's captors were?_

"Lucy it's - "

"Sherlock? And you have to go?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you."

"No need, I need to finish my book anyway." She gestured to the novel clutched in her hand. "Plus I'm as eager as you are to have Olivia Knight's murderer – or murderers – caught."

"Okay, well don't wait up if I'm back late." They shared a short, sweet kiss.

"I won't."

But John knew she would anyway.

He got up and grabbed his keys from the mantelpiece and his coat form the back of the chair. He then rushed to his desk and extracted a 9 millimeter from the drawer on the left – just in case.

He was sitting in the cab, when his phone gave another buzz.

GRAB SOME TEABAGS FROM MRS. HUDSON ON YOUR WAY.  
I'M OUT.  
- SH

A few rushed words of small talk with Mrs. Hudson later, John bounded into his old flat clutching a box of English Breakfast Tea.

"John! You're here, marvellous. Put the kettle on will you?"

John stared at Sherlock, who was standing in the middle of the room – clearly mid-pace. His black eye had faded slightly and his nose looked a little less bruised, but what John noticed before any of this was that Sherlock Holmes was wearing, not his usual impeccably fitted and ridiculously expensive attire, but a more casual and easy going suit that looked disturbingly like -

"Is that one of Lestrade's suits Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Right. And why are you wearing it?"

"To _understand _John – and, as I told you in my text, I think I have just made a major leap towards doing so!"

John clenched his teeth, as the situation began to dawn on him. "Right. So let me get his straight. You summoned me away from my wonderful wife not because you had just made a major breakthrough on a case which, I might add, you should be paying your full attention to, but to tell me that you're now an expert in the psychology of Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yes." The reply came without a hint of remorse or sarcasm. "And I think I'd best explain it to you over a pot of tea."

John let out a long sigh, bracing himself against the impulse to give Sherlock's black eye a friend.

"Okay." He turned towards the kitchen, "I'll just - I'll put the kettle on."


	5. Chapter 5: The Abilities of Mr Holmes

**Chapter 5: The Abilities of Mr. Holmes**

Sherlock Holmes realised long ago that he had, among other abilities, a tendency to set people off. Why, however, had remained irritatingly obscure. It had never made sense to him that, in a world where honesty is prized and commended, exposed truths caused such offense – and that was precisely what Sherlock did, expose truths. How could he help but do so when he saw them everywhere and in everything?

He had managed to associate himself with a select few who, he believed, could handle it – if only grudgingly. But DI Lestrade, whom had thus far proven to be one such person, was set off that day by an abrasion with the truth. And Sherlock had to find out _why_.

His first theory had been, of course, the case. It was obvious that Lestrade was affected by the young age of the victim – no doubt a protective complex he had developed from being raised by women in a neighbourhood where 'the man of the house' dealt with things. The fact that he and his ex-wife never managed to conceive was clearly a sore point also.

But something didn't quite fit. _What was it?_

Sherlock crouched in his arm chair, already feeling uncomfortable in Lestrade's clothes. There was too much space between skin and cloth, and the laxity made him feel uncontained and disordered.

Then it had clicked. Clicked as it had always done.

Now, with John settled in the arm chair opposite him, he began to spill his thoughts across the air, laying the pattern out like the accomplished artist he was.

"Don't you see? He punched me not in spite of the truth, but because of it!"

"Sherlock, can't you just accept that he punched you because you were annoying him?"

_Imbecile. _

"It had nothing to do with me," Sherlock snapped. "And everything to do with St. Bart's."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"That's where it happened, where Lestrade recognised the truth that initiated a dominance of emotion over reason." He couldn't hide the disdain in his voice – it was so painfully dull and predictable. "At his office he had been distressed, yet, once at the hospital, he was as livid as Mycroft would be if world peace was declared."

"Well I can tell you why that is," said John. "The poor bugger didn't want to see that body again. Quite frankly, having seen it myself, I'm not too sure I'd be eager to have another once over either."

"John he knew he was going to see the body at the Yard." Sherlock internally praised himself on how patient he was being. "So what else changed? Come on, think!"

"I dunno...I mean, like I said, he was a little angry that you went to get Molly –"

"Precisely John."

"Then what, what are you saying?"

Sherlock hesitated. This was the part he wasn't quite sure he knew how to explain. "There are many aspects of the human race which can be rationalised. Affection, I have noticed, is not one of them." _And that is precisely why it is __**not**__ my area_, he thought to himself.

"So you're saying Lestrade fancies Molly?"

Sherlock felt his knuckles tingle slightly at John's words - a sensation he attributed to keeping his hand still for too long. "Not saying John, _observing_. Yes he fancies her - God know whys - and clearly he couldn't handle the truth about Molly and myself."

John nearly choked on his tea. "The -what!" he splattered.

Sherlock hoped he had avoided getting the hot liquid on his copy of _the Biology of Reptilia, _which lay open at his feet – he was rather fond of that book.

"The truth that Molly Hooper is in love with me, of course," he replied, consulting his watch to see when John would leave. The whole situation had become rather tedious now that the revelation had been reached and conferred, and it had been proven that he, Sherlock, had seen it all.

"Uh, Sherlock," John seemed wary. "I don't know if – I mean sure she's fond of you, but –"

"No, she is," he responded calmly, turning a few pages of an outdated crime book. It had been peering up at him from under a jar of squirming maggots on his desk.

John's head shifted back on its neck slightly, eyebrows rising. The movement made Sherlock look up.

"Oh I don't reciprocate her feelings. I'm simply aware of them."

"Okay," said John, who appeared to ease slightly. "Okay. So what does this mean? What's the point of it all?"

"The point of it all, John, is that _a, _I'm going to have to deal with an irrational Inspector during this case, and _b, _Lestrade and Molly might start a romantic association that could be, potentially, very inconvenient." He gathered the book up in his hand, holding it closer. He had just read a paragraph that was excitingly familiar.

"Why would it be inconvenient?"

It was too much of a coincidence. Sherlock needed to be alone. He needed space to think and room to reason. He_ needed_ to be in his own suit. "Hm, what? Yes, inconvenient John. You know, cause trouble, discomfort, difficulties? Need an example? You being here and interrupting my thoughts." Just as predicted, the acidity of his comment caused a wave of fury to descend over the Doctor's face. _It was just too easy_. "Problem?"

"Yes – there – bloody – well – is – a – problem – you – prick!" It was as if John was suffocating under his rage.

"Please remember to breathe John. It would be most troublesome for you to die right now." And with that Sherlock swept up his suit - which had been folded neatly over the back of the chair – slid into his coat and, tucking the book into his pocket, set off for St. Bart's.

* * *

Molly Hooper ripped open her locker door and searched for her mascara, _sure _she had packed it this morning.

_How could she have let this happen?  
_  
Twenty minutes earlier and arms-deep in the intestines of a 60 year old John Doe, Molly had realised she was already fifteen minutes late for her date with Greg. After performing the quickest close up of her professional career, she had rushed down to the hospital locker room and practically dived into the shower. Now, wrapped up in a towel and dripping wet, she rummaged frantically through her rucksack – and to no avail. Sighing, she picked up a red blouse and a pair of blue jeans from the lower shelf of the locker, reflecting silently on how sad it was that this hollow of metal contained more of clothes than her wardrobe at home. She slammed the locker door shut, revealing a pair of intense, blue eyes.

"Hello Molly."

She jumped and immediately lost her balance. Just before making contact with the water-logged floor, however, a strong arm reached out and, with long elegant fingers snaking across her back, effortlessly saved her from the fall. As soon as she was upright and stable, Sherlock Holmes withdrew his hands.

But Molly could still feel him on her like an electric charge.

"Sherlock! I – uh, what are you-"

"This is important Molly. I need you to give me access to a post mortem that was conducted here 20 years ago. Can you do that?"

"I, I don't know, it depends if it's still on file –"

"Do you have the authorisation or not?"

Molly looked at her watch. She was half an hour late.

"I –"

"Molly please," implored Sherlock.

He was so very close to her.

"I need your help."

Molly looked up into that spectacular face, absorbing the striking features and the way that they shone with a ferocious earnest. The effect was immediate, and they both knew that she had no choice.

GREG, I'M REALLY SORRY BUT I HAVE TO CANCEL. LONG STORY BUT WILL EXPLAIN LATER.  
PLEASE FORGIVE ME.  
- MOLLY

* * *

**Author's note:** I'll try and put the next chapter up as soon as possible - got exams this month so updates may get more sporadic, but please keep reading and reviewing, I really do appreciate it! :)


	6. Chapter 6: A Perfect Circle

**Chapter 6: A Perfect Circle**

Greg Lestrade signalled for the bill, a solitary cup of coffee sitting in front of him untouched. A waiter glided over to him holding a small velvet tray. He thrust a crumpled fiver onto it and left, unwilling to endure any more pitying glances. It was all so superficial, so rehearsed. Greg supposed that was part of the training to work in a posh restaurant – _now here's what to do when a loser is stood up._  
At least he had resisted the many offers of wine, most of the bottles of which Greg was sure he couldn't pronounce let alone afford.

_Why had Molly not come?_

They had spoken on the phone that very morning, and, unless Greg's detective skills were as faulty as his love-life, she had sounded excited - hopeful even.

"Fancy a go love?"

Greg turned to the ally on his right, following the trail of the hollow voice. From beneath absurdly yellow hair, two heavily-lidded eyes, bloodshot and caked in cheap make up, focused vaguely in his direction from within the darkness. His own eyes roamed over the obvious contours of the hooker's breasts and hips, which seemed to strain desperately against their limited leather coating. Usually he found the look repulsive, yet, for some odd reason, tonight it was enticing.

"You's can do more than just look babes."

Greg did not reply, but continued to stare. He knew that engaging with prostitutes was not a rare practise amongst his colleagues, but had himself found the very idea morally repugnant. Why then, could he not tell the poor girl he was the police? Or at least get the hell away from her?

"Quiet one eh?" She winked at him. "Come 'ere love. We can share a ciggie."

He took a few steps forward until he too was bathed in the darkness of the alleyway, and extracted a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. The girl smiled flirtatiously at him.

"Why dun you light it for us honey?"

Mechanically, he lit up a cigarette and held it out to her. She pursed her lips so that they sat fatter and rounder than before, forming a perfect 'O' shape. Understanding what she wanted him to do, he placed the burning cigarette inside. She inhaled and exhaled. His breathing became heavy.

"So whatcha fancy?"

Greg blinked, and gave an honest reply. "I don't know."

"Well," said the girl, as a hand slid up his thigh, "I'm sure we can figure somefin' out."

"No." Greg grabbed the girl's hand, rather more forcefully then he had intended, and removed her from him. Initially she gasped in protest, but as he turned away she merely screeched.

"Freak!"

Greg ignored her and continued on his way home, already committing himself to forgetting the incident.

He felt sick.

* * *

As Molly bent down to pick up the clothes she had dropped, Sherlock's eyes were drawn to her bare shoulders. The freckles that ran across the stretch of pale skin were, he noticed, distributed unevenly but for a small section below her nape, where the discoloured pigments seemed to have organised themselves into a faultless circle. The symmetry was perfect.

"Just give me a few minute to change and I'll, uh, meet you in the lab."

Sherlock did not respond, aware that the adrenaline seeping through him might be too rampant to contain. He wanted to see those files _now_.

A few agonisingly idle minutes later, in which Sherlock had recounted the Latin names of the human anatomy in his head thrice over to keep himself calm and his thoughts organised – where was his violin when he needed it - Molly entered the lab. He could see that the T-shirt she was sporting, faded and tea-stained, was a sentimental keepsake, most likely her late father's. The fact that her hair had been tied back and away from her face told him she recognised the importance of the situation, and the smudge of conditioner under her left ear that she had rushed her shower earlier. But what he could not discern was, rather disturbingly, the expression on her face. True, the features seemed to have arranged themselves into the look of both apprehension and wonder he had become so use to, but her eyes...her eyes seemed different.

No matter. Whatever lay buried in Molly Hooper's eyes was inconsequential – excepting, of course, access to information on a certain autopsy report.

"I need to examine the post mortem of Jennifer Lyle. It was conducted here, at St. Bart's, in 1993."

"Right, well it should be on our system, but whether I can get it for you depends on – well – the nature of death."

"Asphyixiation."

"Natural causes?"

"Must you ask Molly?"

Molly seemed to shuffle on her feet uncomfortably. "Was she abused too? The bruises and stuff the same?"

"It was reportedly violent and sexual in nature, but to know more I will need to see the report."

"Was the case ever solved?"

"No."

"Oh, well Sherlock I'm really sorry but it'll still be a police matter... I'm not sure I'd get ace-"

"It wasn't unsolved either."

Molly frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed. "What I mean to say is that it was incorrectly solved, and therefore technically was never solved."

Sherlock could tell that Molly was on the brink of asking more, her lips parting slightly and her head shifting forward. Fortunately, she seemed to have detected his impatience and thought better of it.

"Okay, well I can probably get it for you then. They like us to use this kind of stuff for teaching and things."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise – a rare migration on their part.

"You teach?"

She blushed. "Only sometimes."

The dark shades beneath her eyes seemed to become more pronounced.

"Night school? I suppose your student debt is really starting to take its toll – that's the price of switching courses midway Molly. Now, the file."  
Sherlock turned to the computer, sitting down on the desk chair and swiftly entering in Molly's password to unlock the screen.

"How did you –", began Molly.

"Not now." He did not have time to discuss the blatancy of the fact that her password would be Toby accompanied with the year of her father's birth.

* * *

Molly stared nonplussed as Sherlock operated her computer, sifting through private hospital documents and her own personal documents alike.

"Aha. Enter the authorisation code please Molly."

He did not move out of the way as he said this, forcing her to lean awkwardly over him to reach the keyboard. The proximity caused a wave of his scent – which always reminded Molly of mahogany wood, printed paper and rich caffeine – to wash over her, and she found herself struggling to keep her balance and concentrate on the digits she was required to enter. Miraculously, she successfully entered the code and stepped back, slightly dizzy, but still standing. Within seconds Sherlock had found the file and hit the print button – it was fifteen pages. He swivelled around on his chair.

"Molly, do you reciprocate DI Lestrade's sentiments for you?"

"Wha – I – how - I'm sorry what!"

"Do you feel for Inspector Lestrade as he feels for you?"

Molly stared. Sherlock entering into a discussion on her personal life willingly was more than just new territory – it was a new friggin' universe.

"I, uh – it's none of your business."

"On the contrary Molly, it is entirely my business."

Every fibre of her body seemed to sing, alive with a dangerous hope. "It - it is?"

"Yes. I have a great deal invested in my association with the two of you, and this could greatly alter things."

"Greatly alter things?" She echoed.

"Of course. The affair – if it is to begin, and judging from the blouse you picked out earlier that would seem likely – would have, among various dates, an expiration."

Molly always knew she was a masochist when it came to Sherlock Holmes, and therefore made the decision to utter one of the most dangerous syllables one could in his presence consciously.

"Why?"

"Neither of you are invested in the relationship, but more in what it offers."

There was a silence – the printer had stopped whirring.

"And when it did inevitably conclude," Sherlock continued, walking over to collect the documents, "I would be in a position where my Detective Inspector and pathologist couldn't cooperate. Naturally I would have to find a new Inspector and a new pathologist, which will be next to impossible as the rest of them are idiots – or at least even more idiotic. I would probably end up with the IQ equivalent of an Anderson and a Donovan."

Sherlock smiled at her, as if he had just awarded her the nicest compliment in the world.

"Yes, in short I would rather things were not greatly altered, so it really would be wonderful if you did not feel the same way as the Inspector."

Molly allowed the surge of rage and defiance to flood through her, and suddenly felt ten feet taller. "Yes, yes I do like Greg Lestrade. And I'm sorry if that may in some way disrupt your life, but everything, despite what you might think, does not revolve around you Sherlock Holmes!"

There was a long silence. _Oh no_, Molly thought, _I shouldn't have said that. _Just before she could apologise, however -

"Fantastic!" Sherlock leaped into the air, grinning maniacally from ear to ear. "Ohhh this is good Molly Hooper!"

He was staring, not at her, but at the autopsy file.

* * *

**Author's note**: Sorry for the delay! I wrote this chapter quite quickly after a history exam, so apologies also if it's terrible. Thanks for all the reviews so far :)

With that in mind, a few replies...

**Hellscrimsonangels**- Don't worry, I have big plans for Molly to, not only be strong, but committ the seemingly unfeasible and make Sherlock realise a few things he has missed.

**Molly's cat Toby/Toby's cat Molly**- Your reviews are not stupid at all, and I love that you saw the small Pirates of the Carribean reference! I agree with you on the Sherlock/John thing as well.

**Louise89**- I was so touched that you picked quotes out! I'm glad you've liked it so far :)

**Zora Arian**- Thank you so much, and that would really mean a lot to me if you could! Hope your exams went well!


	7. Chapter 7: The Unexpected Guests

**Chapter 7: The Unexpected Guests. **

Molly Hooper breathed in the scent of her dad, succumbing to the bittersweet taste of nostalgia.

_God she missed him. _

She wound a finger around a stray thread of the tattered sweater, and watched as the pressure whitened the skin it touched.

He had worn this the day he died. She remembered clearly how the builder orange had clashed horribly with the pale hospital bed, and how the many tubes had reflected its luminance, and how the nurse had joked with him on his fashion taste that morning.  
But she could not conceive where or when else he had worn it. It was now forever the sweater he wore the day he died, and nothing else.

Molly reached for her glass of red and took a few more grateful gulps.

14th December 2004. The chemo had failed, the tumour had won, and Molly had watched her father die, streams of medical terminology and theory running through her head worthlessly. It was in those moments of utter helplessness that Molly had decided to enter pathology. She remembered quite distinctly how she had kissed her father on the forehead when the call was made, faltered blindly through the veins of the hospital, entered the Pathology department and filled in an application with a shaking hand.

And then – and then her life was changed forever. For it was as she was leaving those lower levels of the hospital, eyes streaming with tears, that a long and elegant hand had grabbed her elbow firmly.

_What size feet are you?_

She had stood dumbfounded, yet the man had wheeled her off to a lab nevertheless, commenting that he knew anyway (it was clear from her fingernails apparently) and that he required her anatomy for an experiment. It had been so surreal, wrapped up in the ramblings of this mysterious man, who deduced within five minutes that she was a doctor, that her father had just died and that she was switching to pathology. When he had announced that she could remove the last of many trainers he had been ordering her to walk around in, she left the room in a daze, still not quite sure what had happened. All she had known was that those bright piercing eyes and that deep steady voice had managed to anchor her in a way no other consoling friend had, and she had suddenly not felt quite so lost.  
A few more encounters such as that and Molly had found herself to be completely and hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

She sat up on the sofa, and poured herself another generous helping of wine. She could hear television voices rattling away in the flat next door, and immediately ached for some company. Perhaps she could go to the morgue? Sherlock might be there, investigating whatever he had found out from that old autopsy report last night.

_No, _came the small voice of reason she often suppressed when it came to Sherlock. _That is not a good idea._

She hugged her knees, eyes focusing on her living room's only window. The evening light seemed to twinkle encouragingly at her, as if congratulating her self-restraint.

Then, all of a sudden, the doorbell rang, making Molly jump.

"Coming!" She called, stuffing the old sweater under the sofa pillows and out of sight. The place was a complete mess, but there was no time to straighten it out – besides, she suspected it was the landlady, who Molly knew would probably offer a snide comment even if the place looked like the cover of a hotel brochure. She opened the door.

"Surprise!"

It was definitely _not _the landlady.

* * *

Lucy Watson could feel her husband's agitation as if it were her own. Their entire apartment seemed to move with him as he paced from room to room, seemingly without purpose or forethought. She watched him from the sofa, pondering whether or not she should ask what was wrong. Part of her was reluctant to do so - she suspected it had something to do with Sherlock Holmes, and why John had come home fuming from 221B, and she did not feel she had the emotional stamina to deal with _that_today. On the other hand, she dearly wanted to finish the chapter she was writing, and John's incessant pacing was proving to be quite the distraction. When he moved to make his fifth cup of tea, however, Lucy decided she had to intervene.

"John please stop making tea," she implored. "You're going to turn into a teabag at this rate. Just sit down and tell me what's bothering you."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes is what's bothering me!" He exploded, slamming the teapot down on the counter. "I'm done dealing with that self-obsessed git!" He stomped melodramatically over to her and slumped into the armchair opposite.

"You don't mean that John."

"I bloody well do. You realise barely half an hour after he summoned me over there he practically threw me out? No, I'm sorry, his majestycan find other subjects to order around."

"I would rather not be associated with inbred royalty John."

Lucy looked up in shock. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, framed by his customary trench coat and enveloped in his signature scarf. She didn't bother to ask how he had managed to get in.

"People usually knock." She remarked, but kept her tone friendly.

"But, as you are well aware Mrs. Watson, I am not people." He bowed, which Lucy adored. Insolent yet courteous? Brusque yet refined? Oh how she would love to write a character like him.

A derisive snort erupted from where John sat, and Sherlock turned to him, his face softening slightly.

"John, I need to speak with you."

Lucy watched as her husband kept the back of his head to Sherlock defiantly, and almost burst out laughing. It was so childish.

"John I – I apologise for the way I acted."

John continued to stare at a book which, to Lucy's comedic delight, he held upside-down.

"If you are able to accept my apology and accompany me to a nearby coffee shop, I have some important news to share with you regarding the case."

John remained silent.

"I see." Sherlock nodded at Lucy, and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Called Lucy. She rushed over to the coat hanger and picked up John's coat, checked his wallet and keys were inside, and then threw it onto his lap.

"Lucy, what – "

"Go. This is silly and you know it. Whatever he did, it's not worth denying Olivia Knight and her family the truth over. Go and help." Then she added, in a whisper so only John could hear, "And it's certainly not worth losing your best friend over."

John stared at her for a few seconds and Lucy was worried she'd made things worse, but then his face broke into a wide smile.

"You really are the wisest person I know."

She leaned down and kissed him, then whispered into his ear, "But you know Sherlock Holmes."

"There's a big difference between being clever and being wise," he whispered back.

"As touching as this intimate moment is – "

"Yes yes I'm coming," snapped John.

Lucy watched as John strode over to Sherlock and they shared an awkward smile and a tentative nod. She couldn't decide whether she felt more like crying or laughing.

* * *

Author's note:

Sorry about the wait, but exams are finished! Next chapter will be up soon, where you'll find a bit more development on the case (sorry for neglecting it slightly in this chapter.) Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review, it really means a lot!

**Louise89 **– I'm so glad you got that about Lestrade, because yes, I do believe he is. He's a man who deals with death daily, has recently parted with his wife and is in desperate need of companionship, or something to remind him that the world can be a warm and lovely place. So he craves intimacy. As for Jennifer... keep reading!

**Coloradoandcolorado1**– I know exactly what you mean.

**IvPayne **– Thank you I quite like Molly/Greg (Molreg?), but I have to admit I am definitely a Sherlolly shipper first and foremost. They're too wonderfully conflicting to not be together _eventually_.

**sophie1670**– I'm glad you like Lucy, because I love writing her! Partly because, by virtue of her profession as a writer, she is constantly analysing characters and relationships, as if she's reading a story as oppose to living one, but also because she's married to John and is therefore just this lovely, intelligent and incredibly patient individual!

**Sherlockianbabe**– I like that you kept 'they' ambiguous.

**PENsive**– Thank you, and yeah I think you're right, hopefully now that my exams are finished I'll have more time to coat it all with a bit more detail!

**Zora Arian**– Thanks! Hope you like this one too!

**traintonowhere**– I'm sure there are a few more tantalising scents thrown in there, but I figured those would be the ones Molly would fixate on!

**Hellscrimsonangel**– All in good time :)


	8. Chapter 8: A Stillness

**Chapter 8: A Stillness.**

Greg stood awkwardly in the doorway, still unsure whether this was a mistake. It had seemed like such a good idea when he had been sitting in his office earlier that day, contemplating how to finally see Molly Hooper without the presence of a dead body or Sherlock Holmes. _Romantic_, like one of those scenes he'd seen on the telly when his wife had had control of the remote. But as he stood in front of her now, clutching to the bag of supplies and the rented dvd, he felt completely ridiculous.

"I – uh – wow! This certainly is a surprise!" Molly smiled, and the tension that had seized his innards seemed to loosen slightly. "Come in!"

He stepped inside and looked around, taking in the soft blue couch, scattered piles of books – some of which were as high as Greg's waist – and the small antique television set in the corner. The room opened up into a simple kitchen, fit with various appliances and a small wooden table and chairs. To his left there were two closed doors, which Greg assumed lead to a bedroom and bathroom. Molly shuffled into view, smiling nervously.

"So, this is me!"

"I like it." And he meant it – it was small, but its unassuming charm suited Molly.

"Can I get you something to drink?" She gestured to a bottle of wine which sat at the foot of the sofa. "I'm drinking red, but I've got beer and a few spirits in the cupboard if you'd rather."

"I'll have the same as you. But I'll do it! I'm here to serve you, not the other way around."

She looked around at him, puzzled and midway through her reach for the bottle.

"I've, er-", his mouth became very dry. This _was _a shitty idea. "I've come to cook for you." He held the bag of provisions he had kept to his side up. "I mean, I figured since we couldn't go out last night...and if now is not a good time I can go in a heartbeat." His fingers found themselves on the back of his neck, attacking the patch of skin nervously.

But Molly's face transformed into a wide smile, eyes shining. "No stay. That sounds perfect."

The next hour was spent under the lull of light conversation and the smell of cooking spices – he wasn't the best chef in the world, but had been deigned 'curry king' by his friends after flat sharing with an Indian man named Juveen in his youth. Initially he tried to limit Molly's involvement as much as possible, insisting she relax on the sofa. She would have none of it though, and was chopping onions and chillis under his instructions within minutes. Greg was surprised at the ease in which they fell into a rhythm, passing various sauces and utensils between them.

_I could get use to this, _he thought.

As she began to lay the table, he moved towards a towering bookshelf stuffed with what looked like hundreds of records. He ran his hands over the many cases, examining the labels.

"This is quite a collection."

"Thanks. It was my dad's."

"What shall I put on?" His fingers halted over a Queen record, memories of smoky clubs and crazy hair flooding back to him.

"Um, how about something classical? Middle shelf, third from the left is lovely."

Greg found the record, and read the label.

YEHUDI MENUHIN, VIOLIN CONCERTO D MAJOR OP. 61, 3RD MOVEMENT

_Never heard of it._

"Yeah, yeah that one's great." He extracted the record and placed it in the gramophone positioned nearby. Soft, flowing violin began to swell from the speakers, reminding Greg of smarmy prep school boys. He turned around to look at Molly, who had suddenly become very still. Her hand was resting on the plate she had just lay and her eyes were closed - Greg had never seen her look so calm.

"Beautiful," he said.

"What?" Molly's eyes flickered open, and her feet began to shuffle around the table once more. "Yes, it is isn't it."

He hadn't been talking about the music.

* * *

The coffee shop Sherlock had chosen was, and there was no other word for it, _depressing_. The windows were dark with grime and John suspected the floor had not been washed for weeks. As far as he could tell there was only one waiter, whose sullen face eyed them suspiciously from across the room, as if he thought they were disturbing the peace of his hitherto vacant shop. If anyone else had escorted John here he would have assumed they had limited funds or were lost. Neither, of course, could possibly apply to Sherlock Holmes, who sat in front of him as a dazzling contrast to the decrepit surroundings.

"Er Sherlock, why are we here? And don't tell me the waiter owes you a favour."

Sherlock ceased his incessant tapping of the metallic table and steadied his piercing gaze on him, yielding to an utter stillness. It unnerved John, whom had grown quite use to his friend's constant restlessness.

"Jennifer Lyle was eight years old when she was snatched off the streets in 1992. Her body was recovered 6 weeks after she had gone missing, and the police found she had been starved and buried alive in a plastic shopping bag."

"Christ, so exactly the same as Olivia?"

"No. According to her autopsy report, she was not sexually abused."

"Oh. So there isn't a connection?"

"Would I mention her if there wasn't?"

"Right, of course. And it has something to do with this place also?"

Sherlock smiled. "The waiter may not owe me a favour, John, but he does owe us a few explanations ." He raised those long and elegant fingers, and the sullen-faced man descended on them like a hawk.

"Yuh," the man grunted. "Watchawant."

"Hello! It is so very exciting to meet you sir!" The jovial American accent had spouted from none other than Sherlock, who had leapt up and was shaking the waiter's hand excitedly. John knew immediately that the detective was tapping into one of his many disguises. "Such an honour!" He almost had John convinced.

"I –what! Whoerryou?" The man blurted, his bushy eyebrows knitted together.

"Jason Bradfood, New York Times, and boy am I pleased to meet you!"

The placid skin of the waiter seemed to stretch even gaunter as it contorted with rage. "Jerrrnalist! Get tha hell outtahere! Scum!"

"No no you misunderstand, I'm here to write your side!"

The sullen face froze. "My...myside?"

"Yes!" Sherlock beamed. "I've been an avid supporter of your campaign ever since the arrest, and, now that you've been released, have finally had the green light to run a story on the injustice of the conviction!"

The beatle-black eyes widened. "You, you believe I dint kill that gurl?"

Sherlock nodded, fixing his face with an encouraging smile – it was hard to believe that the angular features were capable of such a thing.

The waiter turned to John. "And'oo's this then?"

"My assistant. He's here to take notes."

John quickly extracted a notepad and pen, and smiled also, following Sherlock's lead.

"Shall we get started then?"

The narrowed eyes darted between the two of them for a few moments, though the excitement beneath them was clear. "Alrigh'," came the sour voice, as a chair was dragged schreeching over to them. "Whatcha wanna know?"

* * *

Molly stared into the soft grey eyes of the inspector, hazy under the influence of Beethoven, red wine and a full stomach. They were now sitting on the sofa, discussing everything from politics to philosophy. When she had finally plucked up the courage to turn the conversation to more personal details, she was surprised to learn that Greg had completed two years of an economics degree before dropping out to support his sister, that he had married at the (in his words) "premature age of twenty-one", and that he had for many years wanted to buy a dog, but had never quite found the time. He had not yet mentioned his work though.

"So, why did you decide to join the force?"

"Well, it was actually a mate of mine's idea." He took another sip of his wine, and leaned back into the pillows of the sofa. "We'd been down the pub when a commotion between these two lads started up, and I sort of managed to split it up and calm the whole thing down. Then Andy – that was the mate – had joked that I'd make a good copper, ensuring the peace and all that. And I don't know, I guess I sort of latched onto the idea." He grinned. "And that was that! How about you, what made you decide on Pathology?"

She looked at him for a few moments, aware that she was not yet ready to answer honestly. Luckily, the alcohol swimming through her bloodstream provided her with a response she would never have the confidence formulate sober. "To meet handsome Inspectors like you, of course."

Greg chuckled, and leaned forward until his face was an inch from hers. "May I kiss you, Molly Hooper?"

She nodded, goosebumps spilling down her spine, music swelling in her ears and evening light illuminating the grey twinkling eyes that stared into her own.

Then their lips touched, and her mind went blank.

* * *

**Author's note:** A speedy update seemed fitting, seeing as the last one was so short and I've been so slow with them for the past month. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks again for the reviews - they mean the world to me :)


	9. Chapter 9: The Blue Sofa

**Chapter 9: The Blue Sofa**

_just a ransom, that's all it was meant ta be_

_they's came outta nowhere and snatched her from me_

John flicked through his notebook as the taxi ambled its way across London. He found himself mouthing the scribbled notes, and as he did so the sallow face of Arnold Shrew reformed in his mind. He turned to Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed outside the window and beyond the blur of cars and buildings.

"So, if he was telling the truth, that would mean –"

"He was," Sherlock interrupted.

John would have been sceptical, seeing as an entire police department, 12-man jury and a stream of journalists had most certainly thought otherwise 20 years ago, if it were not for the fact that Sherlock Holmes was telling him so. "Go on then, how do you know?"

"His wrist."

"His wrist?"

"Yes. Underdeveloped muscle."

"So, what? He couldn't bury her?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It is not a question of capability John, but motive. He does not possess the qualities of the man we're looking for."

"Because he has a weak wrist?"

"Because he's illiterate, obviously."

"Right yeah, _obvious_," John echoed. That was the problem with being around Sherlock – you always felt like an idiot.

"But what about the evidence? The conviction?"

"People see one truth and allow it to distort the rest. Their funny little brains can't comprehend the facts, the logic." Sherlock closed his eyes, slender fingers moving to caress his temples. "The ransom call _was_ made by Arnold Shrew, and her DNA _was_in his apartment. But that was only a fragment of the picture."

"Because someone else had her after him?"

"Yes." The piercing eyes opened and turned to the screen of his mobile, as inscrutable as when they were closed. "Go on then, what does the truth mean?" He had the air of a schoolteacher about him.

"Huh?"

Sherlock recited "so if he was telling the truth, that would mean...?"

"Oh right, yeah. It would mean that the same thing happened to Olivia Knight? She was taken from her kidnapper too?"

"Yes –the sodium triphosphate allergy told us that."

"But she was sexually abused?"

"By the first abductor, yes, but that is unimportant. It's the consistencies that matter."

John mulled his next query over in his head – one that he had held back for fear of the answer. "If someone murdered that little girl 20 years ago, and wasn't blamed for it, and then did the same to Olivia now, what have they been doing in between?"

Sherlock's eyes finally met John's. The gleam in them was manic.

"Precisely."

John swallowed audibly. _There were more._

"So, so someone has been abducting, abusing and murdering kidnapped children...for the past 20 years?"

"Brilliant isn't it?"

"How could that possibly be good?"

"Crime is common John, but logic is rare."

"Right." John hated it when Sherlock went cryptic. Deciding it was better to wait for the consulting detective to elaborate than press for details, he turned to the window.

_That's not right._

"Uh, Sherlock," he whispered, "The cabby's taking the wrong route."

"No, he is taking the route I told him to take."

Typical.

"Where are we going?"

"We are going, John, to the residence of Molly Hooper."

* * *

Molly let out a small moan as Greg's tongue began to work its way down her neck. He reached her collarbone and paused, so that all she could hear was the sound of their heavy breathing and all she could feel was the weight of him on her, pressing down into the soft contours of the sofa. He began to leave a trail of kisses along the frame of her shoulder, and her fingers seized and gripped his shirt tighter. It was wonderfully exhilarating, feeling and hearing him so intensely whilst her mind remained blissfully empty.

"Lestrade, please disentangle yourself from Dr. Hooper."

Molly froze.

_This was not happening._

"Fuck, Sherlock!" By the sound of it, Greg had leapt up and stumbled onto the floor. Molly kept her eyes shut tight.

"Judging by the empty wine bottles, aroma of spices and the position you were just engaged in, it was Molly you were trying to do that to Inspector, not me."

_Please let me disappear_, she thought desperately, _let me sink into the sofa and disappear forever._

"Get out!"

"This is important Lestrade, much more so than fornicating with Dr. Hooper."

"You could've called!"

"This was quicker."

Molly heard footsteps approaching – how had she missed Sherlock's? – and finally decided to open her eyes.

It was John. He rushed through the door, breathing heavily. "I - managed – to - chase - down - the – cab – Sherlock - but - he - didn't – have – your - scarf."

Molly watched as Sherlock withdrew a long, navy-blue scarf from beneath the folds of that endless coat. "Found it."

John gave an exasperated sigh. "I ran a bloody mile!"

Sherlock surveyed him. "Don't exaggerate John, your pulmonary tidal volume indicates a distance of five hundred metres at most. Anyway, you need the exercise."

John shook his head incredulously, then, catching Molly's eye, offered a small smile. "Hullo, sorry about –" But he stopped dead, his gaze having found Greg's crumpled figure on the floor. "Oh, hi, I – are we", he stuttered, eyes roaming over Molly's ruffled hair and Greg's slightly exposed chest.

"Yes, you are." Greg picked himself up off the floor and began buttoning his shirt. "And I'd like to know why."

"It's about the case. We need to leave now." Sherlock turned on his heels, and made his way towards the front door.

"Sher-lock!" Called Greg, frustration clinging to the name.

The tall figure stopped in the doorway and turned his head ever so slightly to the right, revealing but a fraction of those handsome features. "Let's just say that a great deal of your missing children cases will be solved tonight." And with that he disappeared into the shadows.

John turned to look at the two of them, evidently speechless. After a few moments he merely nodded then followed after Sherlock – he may not have said anything, but Molly could hear his apology loud and clear. Somehow it made her feel worse.

Greg sighed, and picked his coat up off the table. "I'm sorry Molls, but I really should go."

_Molls? _She shuddered internally – she hated that nickname.

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for a lovely evening. I'll call you."

And then he too was gone.

She sat still for a few minutes, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

Sherlock Holmes had been in her flat.

She knew it was not the main thing she should take away from the scenario, but it was all she could think about. It was a notion she had barely dared to fantasise with - even her dreams of him had always involved the backdrop of a chemistry lab or the morgue, not her _home_.

Still, as novel as it had been, Molly was not particularly perplexed by it; she had always believed Sherlock was prepared to cross all boundaries, be they personal, moral or scientific, in the name of solving a puzzle. No, what was far more unexpected, and therefore intriguing, was the scarf. She would sooner believe Sherlock's favourite movie genre was Disney than accept he had not noticed the treasured garment on his person - which could only mean thing. He had ensured John's delay purposefully. But why?

_Of course_. He must have known what scene they would walk in on. It _was _Sherlock, after all.

She knew she should be furious – he had consciously disrupted a romantic evening in the most inconvenient and humiliating way possible. But all she could think about was the fact that he had afforded her the small privacy of excluding John.

It was the closest thing to sensitivity she had ever seen in Sherlock Holmes.

Molly knew he did not reciprocate her feelings in intensity or nature, but maybe, just maybe, he did care – if only a little bit.

* * *

Sherlock reeled off the address to the cabby.

"That's where Olivia Knight was found!"

"I am aware of that Inspector."

He observed the significance of this spread across Lestrade's paling face. How funny it must be, for things to sink and dissolve through the synapses so arduously.

"There's more?"

"Yes. A considerable amount."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock looked at John pointedly – he did not feel like going through the painfully obvious again. He wanted to think about what had just happened.

Why did he want to think about what had just happened?

Nothing of particular interest had occurred. Not yet anyway. That was still to come, buried deep in an unused field.

But the image of Molly Hooper beneath the Inspector kept flashing in his mind.

Why? It was not important. It should go.

Delete. Delete. Delete. DELETE.

"Are you alright Sherlock?"

He looked up, and realised that the pressure he had been applying to his head was rather forceful, and evidently visibly so. "Fine, thinking."

John's look of concern did not disappear, but he turned to Lestrade and continued his explanation – one Sherlock was sure he was delivering inadequately. He flicked his gaze to the Inspector, who sat across from him and was listening intently to John.

Those hands had been on her innominates. Those lips on her clavicle. That chest on her abdomen. Sherlock felt his knuckles tingle. He stretched them, spanning the fingers wide to relieve the tension. But the unwanted sensation continued.

_Why did it matter?_

Go somewhere else, another room. The cafe today, the office he would visit tomorrow, the alley on 22nd street he had not entered in years.

But Sherlock could not escape Molly Hooper's flat.

Fine then. He would analyse it, pick it apart, reduce it to a miscellaneous collection of unimportant facts. Because that's what it was, of course.

The sofa.

Tattered threads at the base and various stains across the anterior – clearly second hand. Though the tea blotch 23cm from the arm rest was Molly's making. Approximately fifteen years old, and most likely inherited from her deceased father.

Azure blue shade but for the darker upturned corners – she washed it carelessly and with cheap washing powder. Evidently not one for home comforts. He'd always known she preferred a working environment.

Glitch in the stitching on the upper right-hand corner of backrest and a 93 degree angle with the right armrest– bought from an independent furniture shop, one of a kind.

Flash of orange protruding from beneath the pillow in the left hand corner, woolly and unwashed – a garment of some kind, though Sherlock had never seen her wear the colour. Another sentimental keepsake?

Sepia deposits of cat hairs, 2cm in length and fine –shade indicates a tabby, amount of fur an age of 2-6 years.

Indent on left hand side of sofa – produced by a figure of approximately 132-136 pounds (Molly did tend to overindulge during the holidays). Recoil retained elsewhere –singularly occupied.

Excluding, of course, this evening.

Sherlock lifted his head out of his hands and stared blindly out the window.

He had not noticed any other aspect of the flat, could not even picture the pattern of the wallpaper or the material of the floor. He felt himself start to physically shake.

BAM.

Sherlock slammed his hand against the taxi door, making both Lestrade and John jump and the cabby exclaim in protest. He ignored them all.

He was trapped in a blank room; white walls, white ceiling, white floors. Empty and unreadable, but for a single image – the single image he was trying to avoid.

The outline of two figures, entwined and pulsating, on a second hand blue sofa.

He needed to see those corpses _now_.

* * *

**Author's note:**I found this chapter quite difficult to write and so it might be awful, but it had to be included so please bear with me!

**River Winters**– Thank you :) I just love the thought of Benedict Cumberbatch feigning an American accent, don't you? Sherlolly to come, don't worry, and more on what pathology means to Molly as well. One of my favourite things about the television character is the fact that she's so cautious with the living and yet so comfortable with the dead, so you'll definitely see some exploration of that!

**IvPayne**– Hootrade, I love it :D Yes, I have to admit I grabbed a takeaway myself after imagining that scene!

**Hellscrimsonangel**– I really hope they look into it too, think it would make for a brilliant scene and I bet Moffat and Gatiss would come up with something incredible! You read my mind :) Or maybe I'm just too predictable? Hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway!

**R. A Cunninghame**– Thank you so much, and I certainly will with such wonderful readers!

**shepweir always**– This really is such a lovely review, one I don't feel I quite deserve! But thank you, it's so incredibly encouraging :)


	10. Chapter 10: A Rationalised Habit

**Chapter 10: A Rationalised Habit.**

John Watson watched as hundreds of officials crawled over the damp grass like ants. Bag after bag was heaved from the soil, and with each new face John could feel his senses intensify; the lights became brighter, the siren calls more blaring, the cold wind more biting. It reminded him inescapably of his time in Afghanistan - such death, such insurmountable death – and he felt the familiar blend of disgust and excitement. It was somewhat grounding to hear Sherlock muttering about the "_idiots"_on scene, and John allowed the deep voice to lead him through the sea of people. They arrived at a corner of the field and, beneath the shelter of a towering oak tree, he allowed himself to be drawn back into conversation.

"-and what's Anderson doing here! Isn't there a petty theft he could deal with?"

"Don't be a prat," retorted Lestrade, "we need all hands on deck for this one."

Sherlock snorted, then withdrew his mobile and began flicking through the photos he had been accumulating over the past hour. As usual, he had ordered John to provide a medical analysis of the bodies despite the many physicians on scene. And, as usual, John was struck each time by how wonderful it felt to be _useful_.

He turned to the Inspector. "How many?"

"So far, 32. Crime of the decade is an understatement." Lestrade ran his fingers through his silvering hair. "The press are going to have a field day."

"Sir!"

Both John and Lestrade looked up, and traced the voice back to Sally Donovan. She was standing about 50 feet away amid a group of florescent figures, a walkie talkie in her hand.

"Superintendent is five minutes away!"

"Okay!" Lestrade called. He let out a heavy sigh. "This is not going to be fun. Wish me luck!" He stalked away, shoulders drooping.

John turned to Sherlock, who was still surveying the digital images as if the reality did not lay obscenely before him.

"Anything?"

"Will need their post mortems to know for sure..." mumbled Sherlock.

"But your guess?"

"I never guess. It is a shocking habit. Destructive –"

"- to the logical faculty," John finished. "I _know_."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Then why the poor choice of words?"

John gave an exasperated sigh, and allowed his body to lean against the tree for support. "I'm tired okay, quit being a twat and just say what you know," he moaned.

Amazingly, Sherlock obliged without comment. "My _theory_," he enunciated, "depends on the premise that the murders are exactly the same on all counts – and I strongly suspect they are."

John whistled. "Twenty years of the same routine. Not very usual, is it?"

Sherlock tucked his phone inside his coat pocket, and turned his whole body to face John. "No, not usual at all. Hardly the movements of your average serial killer..." Then Sherlock's eyes darkened, and his features, though very still, seemed to become more alive all of a sudden. John knew exactly what that look meant.

"What is it?"

"Cause of death, positioning, burial, exactly the same over two decades..." Sherlock gripped both of John's elbows hard. "John, if someone indulges an urge it progresses, evolves. But what if it isn't an urge? What if it is something far less common?"

"Like what?"

"Logic John! Oh!" He removed his hands and was lifting them up to his head. "Oh this is my kind of killer."

_Of course he has a type of killer._

"Keeping it the same, controlling the variables, don't you see John! It's an experiment!" His voice softened slightly. "The question is... what for?"

John turned back to the blur of police, forensics and bodies, his thoughts tracing a conclusion familiar from his army days.

Nothing could be worth all of this.

* * *

Greg Lestrade leaned back on his chair and gazed out of the window behind his desk. The department's buzz of shifting paper and hurried commands seemed to hum louder as he closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

_What a nightmare._

In the three weeks since they had uncovered the bodies, 3256 calls had been made to the Yard. Of those 3256, 2116 had claimed to have crucial knowledge of the murders, whilst the rest had confessed to being the perpetrators themselves. With the eye of the British public trained unblinking on their every movement, and with the chief superintendent breathing down their necks, Greg and the other DIs had had to follow up every single one.

_Every single fucking one._

If Greg had to file the statement of another bored housewife or attention-seeking teenager – extra resources or not - he might just punch someone. And, whilst spending half his evenings in the company of Molly had been a wonderful diversion from the endless paperwork and dead-end meetings, that too held its own form of aggravation.

He appreciated that she wanted to take it slow, he really did. But he would be a liar if he said it didn't frustrate him when he wondered up to that grey building with its grey doors and wonky numbers, mentally tried and physically seeking, to wind up curled up in front of a movie or listening to bloody Beethoven.

"Sir?"

He wheeled around on his chair to find Sally Donovan standing in front of him, phone pressed to her ear. He noted, with a confusing mixture of satisfaction and pity, the dark circles under her eyes. He hoped to God a certain consulting detective was on the other end of the line.

"It's MI6."

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the wall and checked the time on his phone.

14:22pm.

Another three minutes and Molly should be rounding that corner. He knew she would take one of her longer lunch breaks today, her cereal bowl having been tucked neatly away in the cupboard and the milk having sat on the furthest side of the fridge door when he checked her flat a few hours ago.

It had been the last visit, of course, and as justifiable as all of them had been. The first, he had reasoned, was for the sake of his sanity. Those inexcusable blanks had been too much of a torment to resist, and Sherlock had found himself picking the lock of Molly Hooper's flat within a day of the _incident_. The second visit had been out of curiosity. The funny little objects, from the 56 year old gramophone (used approximately once a week) to the Italian glass ornaments (depth of scratches indicate fake antiquity), had posed more questions than they answered, and Sherlock _needed_ to understand. Molly was his pathologist after all, and one needed to know their pathologist. Particularly if said pathologist was in danger of jeopardising access to the morgue or cases with Lestrade.

And so the second had grown into a third, a fourth, a fifth and, as of this morning, a sixth visit. Sherlock knew the flat, every detail of it. He had made a game of distinguishing what of the furnishing was truly hers – for very little was. Most, he had concluded, had belonged to her deceased father. The sentimentality made his stomach turn.

Sherlock heard the pitter patter of shuffling feet, and knew immediately that it was Molly approaching. He glanced at his watch, and frowned; she was two minutes later than usual.

"Oh! Hi Sherlock." She withdrew her keys and began unlocking the lab door, and Sherlock focused in on her slightly flushed cheeks, recently applied eye make-up, and the scattered blueberry muffin crums on the collar of her shirt.

So, Molly had swapped her hospital canteen meal for a coffee with the Inspector.

"I'm afraid there's nothing new in since last night."

"I'm here for my slides."

"Oh - okay." They walked inside, and she sat down at the desk in the corner and began pulling at papers.

Sherlock moved to the microscope and was instantly reassured – what of he was not sure – by the cool feel of the metal beneath his skin. He began examining the rat kidney cells he had prepared earlier.

Midway through an inspection of the nephron, his phone buzzed; it was John. Sherlock hit ignore and turned to Molly, who was still sifting through documents.

"How are things progressing with the Inspector?"

"Sherlock, let's not do this now," she sighed. "I've got a mountain of paperwork to do."

Sherlock surveyed the documents she was examining. Office paper, formal layout, 4-5 subheadings.

_Boring._

He stood up, turning off the light of his microscope as he did so. "I need to examine the 230 pound addict again."

Molly did not look up from her papers. "I'm busy Sherlock, maybe later."  
_  
_"No you're not. This is important, I need to see that body."

"Not now."

_Not now?_

Then he was back. Back in the empty room with its blank walls and blank floors, the blue sofa in a repulsive state of movement, the entwined figures blurred.

Sherlock grabbed his jacket and left the lab without a word. Maybe one more inspection of Molly Hooper's flat was necessary.

* * *

John tossed his phone onto the sofa, frustrated.

_Fine, ignore me. I'm only a concerned friend. But why the hell should that matter? The great Sherlock Holmes has no need for concerned friends._

The unreciprocated conversation did not, sadly, ease John's irritation. He picked up a cardboard box labelled, in his wife's fluid handwriting, "study collection", and moved towards the door. The box split, and one of Lucy's many hardbacks fell heavily on his foot. John swore loudly.

Lucy's head poked out from their bedroom. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, just hurt my toe," he replied, sitting down on the leather sofa and rubbing the damaged area through gritted teeth.

She came over to join him, bubble wrap trailing behind her. "Maybe we should take a little break."

"Agreed," said John, as Lucy folded herself into him, cheek resting on his chest.

"What's wrong honey?"

John looked down at her, eyebrows furrowed. "I just told you, I injur-"

"I don't mean that. You've been on edge for the last couple of days...is it the move?"

John looked around the nearly empty apartment, and sighed. "I'll miss this place. But no, it's not that."

"What is it then? Is it Sherlock?"

John didn't answer.

"I thought so," she murmured.

"It's this obsession!" John blurted out, before he could stop himself.

Lucy opened her eyes and looked up at him, a quizzical expression on her face. "And that's something new? For as long as I've known you you've said that's how he operates, how he works his cases."

"Yeah but that's the thing, it's not just about the case anymore, there's something else." He paused, wanting to hear what Lucy thought of that, but she remained silent. "Do you remember Greg Lestrade?"

"The inspector? Yes, we were introduced at the wedding. The British George Clooney."

John almost laughed. "The what!"

"I don't know, he's sort of got that look hasn't he."

"Should I be worried?" John joked, raising his eyebrows in mock concern.

Lucy grinned, snuggling herself into his arms. "Don't worry darling, I prefer my men cute and cuddly."

He laughed. "Thanks Luce."

"Oh you know what I mean. So what about Mr. Clooney?"

"Well he's started dating Molly Hooper, the pathologist – or I don't know, whatever Hollywood actress you associate her with."

"Drew Barrymore. She's got that adorable, wide-eyed look."

John chuckled. "Right. Well the two of them have sort of become an item, and, well, Sherlock's been fixating on it, rattling on about the relationship's 'ultimate demise'. And - blimey I never thought I'd say this - but it's shifting his focus. I mean you know what he's like, tunnel vision and all that, and I'm worried his obsession is misplaced this time. I mean what about the case? He hasn't come up with anything for three solid weeks! And since when does Sherlock Holmes fixate on feelings and relationships over crime and gore? It's all wrong, and, well, I'm worried about him." John paused. It felt so good to finally voice what had been bugging him. "What do you think?"

Lucy did not speak for a few moments, and John worried she might have fallen asleep. Then, all of a sudden, he heard her cautious reply. "I've actually started writing a character like Sherlock."

"Oh?" He had not been expecting that.

"He's, well, he's a seven year old boy."

"Right."

"John, Sherlock's a bit like a child. He has a certain order, and plays a game with certain rules. If people don't work in the game then fine, they don't have to be a part of it. Hence the insensitivity. It's his game, so why should he care how others feel about it? But I think he's become rather...attached isn't really the right word, fond maybe, to the players involved. And trying to meander his way through keeping them around is probably quite testing for him. And I guess he's just scared that Molly and Greg wont, well, fit on the chessboard anymore."

John stared at her. "And I thought I knew him well."

Lucy blushed. "Oh I don't know him well at all! I'm just fascinated I guess. It's different for you, you don't study him at arm's length. You live and breathe the game. I'm more like a spectator."

"So what do you think I should do?"

"Reassure him."

John really did laugh this time. "Reassure Sherlock Holmes? He's the most self-assured man I've ever met!"

"_Confidence is often the spawn of insecurity_."

"Who said that?"

"Professor L. Edgar."

"Who?"

"He's just this academic who writes about child psychologies. Quite interesting stuff really."

"And you're reading that why?"

Lucy's eyes shot open, colour creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. "I – I just saw it in a shop and –"

John leant down and kissed her deeply, overcome with a surge of passion for this wonderful, beautiful, intelligent women he had been lucky enough to find. When he withdrew, he whispered softly in her ear.

"I want to start trying too."

* * *

**Author's note: **Thanks so much for all the reviews so far, never believed I'd get as many as this! Hope you enjoy this chapter - getting really nervous everytime I post an update now because I'm so sure I'm going to disappoint in some way. If I have with this chapter I really am sorry! And I promise to do better with the next one :)


	11. End of Part One

**END OF PART ONE**

**Author's note –** Thanks to everyone who has been reading, I really am so thrilled! I know it's been a while since my last update, and I feel I owe you all an explanation. I've been very busy with university applications and preparing for my trip to Kenya - leaving tomorrow morning, so excited! I'm afraid it means I won't be able to update for a month as I won't have access to a computer or the internet, but know that it's not because I don't love you and don't love writing this story (because I do) but because I'll be busy working on the local community projects over there. Come August, however, I will be on my summer holiday and providing you all with regular updates! Also, in reply to **Louise89**'s question, yes I have planned the overall story, but some of the details I'm making up as I go along – hope it's not too noticeable! And I'm planning to finish it in about 20 chapters.

* * *

**Below is a quick teaser for PART TWO**

John stood before the door of his old flat, torn between a desire to wrench it open and walk away. He had not heard from Sherlock in days, and whilst this was standard case-behaviour, a small voice seemed to nag that there was something else wrong this time.

He raised his arm and rested his fingertips on the cold metal of the doorknob.

Images of dissected rodents, severed body figures and blood stained furniture began racing through his mind. He was not just opening the door to his old home; he was opening the door to the chaotic mind of a high-functioning sociopath.

"Quit hovering John; enter or leave."

He jumped.

Well, at least Sherlock's observational skills clearly weren't suffering.

He turned the doorknob and tentatively stepped inside.

The room was in total darkness save for the few rays of sunlight that crept through a small gap in the curtains. Papers were strewn everywhere, and dust clung lazily to the air. John squinted into the shadows, trying to locate the long figure of his friend.

"John Watson!" A voice sqeaked. "How wonderful it is to finally meet you!" He felt a hand grab and shake his own firmly.

"Uh, hello?" John replied, not quite sure where to look.

"Oh I'm sorry, should probably switch the light on!" There was a tittering laugh, and then, all of a sudden, light filled the room.

Standing before him was the smallest and most ridiculous-looking man John had ever seen. What was more laughable, the circus-red bow tie, the 1950s tweed suit, or the large, magnified eyes, he could not decide. The man looked like a cartoon character.

John searched the room for Sherlock, and found him strewn lazily over the sofa in his favourite purple dressing gown.

"Uh, what's going on?"

Although he had directed the question to his friend, it was the small man who replied in the same, sqeaky voice.

"Therapy!"

That, John had not been expecting. "What?"

The man's grin seemed to falter slightly. "You, you don't know?" He glanced over at Sherlock nervously. "Oh dear me, I shouldn't have said anything...but you said, I thought he knew, I -"

"It's fine," was Sherlock's curt response.

"Oh thank heavens!" The man brightened again, and turned back to John, beaming. "I'm Dr. Flinnity, Sherlock's therapist. I've heard such wonderful things about you!"

John let his mouth fall open. "His what?"

"Well today's actually our first session. Thought I'd try my midnight sleeper exercise, works marvellously on my other patients... though they are of course in the six to nine age bracket, but that hardly matters! A brain's a brain eh!"

_What the bloody hell was going on?_

Sherlock stood up smartly, and strode over to the mantel piece. He withdrew a fifty from the jaw of the skull and then handed it to Dr. Flinnity.

"You may leave now, I've heard quite enough."

The doctor's face shrivelled in confusion. "But I haven't finished! The -"

"I assure you I am quite cured." Sherlock lead the funny little man out the door as he said this. "There is no need for further consultation."

"Well, I, if you're sure -"

"Yes," said Sherlock shortly, slamming the door in the so-called doctor's face. He withdrew a notepad from the breast pocket of his pjamas and appeared to cross something off a list.

"What was that about?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "The case, of course. What else?"

John felt a wave of relief wash over him.

"Nothing," he grinned, and sank into one of the armchairs. "Tell me all about it."

* * *

A few replies...

**Adi Who is Also Mou** – Thank you so much, that's so nice to hear!  
**coloradoandcolorado1 – **Haha I'm glad you liked it :)**  
LuckyandStars – **Aw thank you!**  
Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat – **You're so sweet, and so reassuring! **  
bluescarft – **Subjective! But thanks :)**  
Zora Arian – **It's great you're interested, and yes I've always thought he's a bit of a child...he may be intellectually mature, but he's certainly not emotionally!**  
Mary – **Thanks, I really do want to keep them in character.**  
anon – **I agree! That's exactly how I pictured it, with him examining her belongings like they're evidence!**  
shepweiralways – **You write such lovely reviews, I'm so chuffed :)**  
Startrekfanwriter –**It's not wrong, I quite like both couples... but would definitely pair her with Sherlock over Greg!**  
** – Thank you, I really like writing those scenes so I guess it's a win win!

Again, sorry for the wait, hope you'll all still be with me come August!


End file.
